


Oasis: Beyond the Sands

by Stars_Falling_Into_Hands



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/F, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:09:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stars_Falling_Into_Hands/pseuds/Stars_Falling_Into_Hands
Summary: You are a corporate personal assistant specializing in diplomacy and negotiations. A new transfer recently selected to work for the Oasis Government, your hope has been to escape an empty, soulless career, and find something that has a true purpose. Abruptly pulled from your initial assignment in the Ministry of Tourism, you are pressed into taking a new role under the infamous Minister of Genetics, Dr Moira O'Deorain. Forced again into the role you left behind, you find there is more to the Minister that her legend ....





	Oasis: Beyond the Sands

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slow burn at first: Moira does not trust easily and has been betrayed repeatedly in the game, realistically she will not be receptive to anyone at first. While set up as a single story, if people enjoy this, this is part of a much longer one where the action will go much, much faster as the relationship will already be established. (Trying to put You on the road to being her Endgame in the story. ;) ) In order to give a more immersive feel, the (y/n) and (lastname) style common in reader inserts has been dropped.

     “I'm sorry?”  
     Transfer. You'd barely been in the Ministry of Tourism for just under a month. You flash through the catalog of recent interactions with the Minister or your coworkers, looking for anything you might have missed. Nothing.  
     The secretary, an older Arabic woman, gravel voiced, seems to pick up on your concern. “You're not being punished. Look, to be very honest, this isn't ideal for anyone. It's a huge demotion, yes. But your name came up exactly because of your work ethic so far and the expertise you had before coming here. If anyone has a chance in getting her to behave, it's you.”  
     Expertise. Is that what we're calling it now?  
    “Just give it a few weeks. If it is truly unbearable, I'll plead with Minister Al-Shahrani to take you on in Geology.”  
     You exhale a too long held breath. “When do I start?”  
    “No time like the present.” She hands back your passcard, freshly updated with your new security clearance. “Your predecessor just walked out forty-five minutes ago.”

      You weave your way through the blistering noonday crush of the main plaza towards the University labs. Normally you'd indulge the still-new feeling of the spiced, chrome coiled heart of the city, but the misters are already at blast, and your mood is sour. Corporate babysitting yet again. Your background is in diplomacy and negotiations. For years you learned how to curb the more flagrant offenses in your very rich and frighteningly well connected charges but the constant exposure to humanity's worst impulses unchecked began to numb you. Flying halfway across the world, you hoped, would have been far enough to escape that, too.  
     The lab floor is unmarked, the white circle on the touchpad light up only once you hold the card up to the sensor. When the elevator finally opens, it smells of sterile, over processed air, and cold. The only trace of organic warmth in the dim, hexagonal blue lit hallway is the sharp click of your heels on polished laminate. The main lab is the last door, left side. Next to it is a temporary workstation right outside the lab, your new office, since the Minister simply couldn't be bothered to stay in her own at Central for more than a few hours a week. You gather your breath, hit chime on the black tinted glass doors, and wait.  
    Harpy, the Red Queen, Blackwatch Banshee...  
   “I'm working,” the voice that came from the speaker was snappish. “State your purpose.”  
    You say your name, and your new title, Senior Administrative Assistant for the Ministry of Genetics. The doors part open, and at last found yourself in the presence of your new boss.  
    Moira the Mad.

    She's still bent over the table when you enter, attention completely absorbed in the mass of vials, screens, and more unidentifiable, ominous looking equipment. When she finally raise up you are taken aback at how tall she is. Her red hair is short and slicked to the sides, stress disheveled slightly at the front. Sharp nose, high cheekbones, “Handsome” more accurate than beautiful. Her black dress shirt sleeves, pushed up, reveal slender arms corded with muscles, the type you got when coffee counted as breakfast, but also spent regular punishing rounds at the gym.  
     But her stare, you'd heard of piercing, but my God, _unnerving_ didn't begin to cover it.  
    “ _Gan mhait!_ “ Gailege exasperation. “ _Must_ we do this again?”  
     Wearily you reconstitute your brightest smile and modulate your tone for warm but soothing, standard de-escalation postures. “My apologies for the disruption to your work Minister O'Deorain. I've been sent by Central as your new assistant. Now, if you will let me know how I can be of service-”  
     “Spare me.” Dr O'Deorain pauses, tilts her head like a falcon eyeing a small, fluttering bird trapped in rusted barbwire. “Diplomat trained? They've grown desperate...” She examines you, leaning close enough to see her heterochromia, frost and clotted blood, that stare... ”You allow your hair to be damaged, so much effort to straighten it, just to satisfy some pointless, ancient standard.” She begins to circle you, slowly, hands clasped behind her back. “You've taken to your instruction well; your dress, your stance, anything unique to you has been cauterized off, until all that remains appears purely wholesome, nonthreatening, and banal...” the “banal”puffed lightly into your ear as a whisper. “You offer me nothing of value.”  
     Now you're mad. You would also be mildly impressed if she wasn't hell bent on dragging you to filth. This wasn't a case of spoiled, but street, and you're being sized up. But you did not work this hard, sacrifice your friends and family, and travel over eight thousand miles just to end up right where you started.  
     Not again, not anymore, and definitely not today.  
     “Let me speak to you in a way you understand,” your voice is low but severe. “Right now you are wasting my time and yours, and you don't seem the type for that. Central hasn't seen a report out of this place in months and I have been tasked with reorganizing this department. So, unless you have some information that will be useful in getting that goal accomplished, this conversation is over.” You step right up to her, gaze be damned. “Now, are we done?”  
     At first, a flash of indignation, then her eyebrow raises slightly. Dr O'Deorain turns away, a royal dismissal, and resumes work back at her station. “Do as you please but I advise you to not get comfortable. You'll won't be here long.”  
     “Is that a threat?”  
     “There's no need,” she doesn't look up. “You'll leave on your own soon enough.”

     It took a week just to gain access to, and locate, your predecessors files, strewn wide over multiple servers. Blocked out of everything else. You find massive, too conveniently placed holes in vital records, mostly involving sources of funding. Research assistants and lab techs, banded together under the common banner of absent leadership, disappear at your arrival, or are outright hostile to you.  
     By the end of the second week Central's offer rose to a siren call.  
     You've just returned from a staff meeting, still red, with a hastily cobbled together outline of this month's itinerary. The meeting you were supposed to take notes for? When fifteen minutes had passed you innocently inquired where the speaker was.  
It was you.  
     Forget the chime. You stride into the lab to locate where your oh so noble Minister has been this morning. Dr O'Deorain's darkened silhouette blots the middle of an in progress video call, one of the Founders, from the looks of it.  
     “-told you, I don't need anyone. Besides, she's not qualified to be here, Oasis is wasted on the likes of her. She's a disruption.”  
     “The initial reports I have say otherwise. She's done quite the opposite, which I'm sure is in no part due to you.”  
     “Ibrahim-”  
     “She stays. Moira, no matter how brilliant you might be, this is still a city that requires some structure to function. Oasis is not your private playground. Anything happens to her and there will consequences, even for you.” He goes from stern upbraiding to the gentler chide of a weary, long term friend. “You can handle at least one assistant, can't you?-”  
     You realize two thing as you slip back into the hallway.  
     You cannot be fired.  
     If you leave, Dr O'Deorain would be punished.  
     Central could wait a little longer. The department still needed to be put to rights. You smile, cold and horrible. This bitch has tried to wreck your career. Damaging your reputation would be out of the question, of course, but you were going to introduce the Minister to a very old adage.  
     Don't piss off the staff.

     Mid afternoon there is a frustrated screech muted by glass. The Minister storms through the lab door and towers over you, taloned nails digging into the surface of your desk. “You've _poisoned_ me”, she hisses.  
     It was your turn to raise an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”  
     She raises a finger to gesture but her hands shake so badly she can hardly keep them still. “The coffee! A full afternoon's work just turned into a dog's breakfast because I can't keep a syringe still!”  
     “You asked me to pick it up from the new Kofi across the street, and that is exactly what I did. You can check for yourself.”  
     Of course, she would find nothing. While it was being made, however, the Barista was admittedly distracted trying to flirt with you, and you did have to keep reminding the poor man, “don't forget the extra shot”.  
    _Five times_.

    “Blouse's cute,” Lab tech chirps as she drops off a sample pack.  
     You nod and adjust the fabric around your bare shoulder. Freshly unearthed from an unpacked box, normally it would be deemed too flashy compared to you curated corporates. If there was any blessing in this, it was that the Minister truly didn't care one bit what you wore or did, so long as you were occupied elsewhere. Immune from fallout, for once in your career you could simply concentrate on the task at hand. Oasis was a haven for the driven to pursue their purpose without restraint. For many, it seemed a waste of precious resources to sabotage, or even argue, unless it was over theory.  
     It was also the same goal Moira was trying to accomplish. Uncomfortably, the thought is not lost on you.  
     “Cabinet meeting in minus one,” you hear in you earpiece. “Good luck, everyone." You recognize it as one of the other Minister's assistants. As you bring up the holodisplay with all the players and an already running information feed at the bottom, you are reunited with two of your previous coworkers, both tasked to oversee their respective leaders, the same as you. You add Dr. O'Deorain's itinerary and begin to pull documents that she might need.  
     You have been doing some research of your own, too.  
     At first it was due to sheer pettiness. Creating a low grade hum of untraceable annoyances has been a satisfying diversion, and you were seeking further sore spots to exploit. That resolve withered as you sifted through the gossip and the polished press bios to find a different woman underneath. One who subscribed to nothing she didn't fully believe in, whether social mores, or standards of beauty, Moira's crime was to dare say that she was good and had no problem making sure the world knew it. A rare purity of spirit, if nothing else. Accolades and artificial benchmarks meant nothing to her. Only her own private definition of human advancement. Had you met her in any other way you would have admired her.  
      Then came the paper. Arrogant overreach was allotted to men, but not to women. The loss must have been maddening. Afterwards the shadow of a shining, heroic organization dangled in front of her what she so desperately wanted. Once again, she gave entirely of herself, to produce with her own dark fire what they so desperately sought.  
     The people who she had trusted betrayed her in the end.  
     That didn't sit well with you. She was good enough to use, but not admit to in daylight.  
     Human advancement of any kind. Her current project list bares out the same pattern. An acidic gel that resists nanite healing. A non-patented medication to regrow tissue within seconds.  
     You were starting to wonder what came first, the garbage attitude, or a bitter response to loss.  
     Frost and clotted blood.  
     Discord in the meeting sockets you back into reality. The cause was taking ownership, and the coveted funding, for a new vaccine, one that required different strains to be given depending on certain genotypes. As usual, Dr O'Deorain was doing herself no favors.  
     “-Your insistence on this idiot plan is so like you, Youssef. Unsightly!”  
     “At least it would have an actual chance of seeing daylight-”  
     You see your friend shake her head. Without comment the assistant sends a partially finished file to you. The plan would work, but wasn't optimal; Dr Al-Jabiri had used a previous version of Dr O'Deorain's protocols, however it didn't account for some recent developments, and she was arguing for those changes to be made. Dr. Al-Jabiri was insisting the plan was fine as is. As a result, several municipalities wouldn't see the vaccine for days.  
     You glance down at your sleeve, vibrantly bright against the cool desk.  
     Equipment sabotage was against code of conduct but your trainer at the Foreign Service Office made sure to teach a few real world tactics as well. As Al-Jabiri's office is about to be given the budget, you place a well manicured nail in the junction of one of the transmitter's cables and pinch. Audio crackle and a sharp, piercing whine for a full ten seconds deafens the chat, triggering a failsafe that forces the feed to refresh.  
     “Ah, technology. Even we fall victim,” quips one of the Ministers. “Can someone bring up Al-Jabiri's algorithm for approval please? Administrators?”  
     “I do believe it was Minister O'Deorain who had come up with the vaccine distribution algorithm.” you respond.  
     Disquiet. “Forgive me, Administrator, but I do believe it was Minister Al-Jabiri."                                                                                                         You send the timestamp to the main view area in the video conference with a snippet of Moira's statement from a few weeks back. “Minister Al-Shahrani, my sincerest apologies. The disruption occurred right as people were speaking. However, with respect, previous record shows Minister O'Deorain's office is the originator. It would be Genetics that would have the money allocated to it for the program.”  
      Murmured awkward agreements in the call as the point is reluctantly ceded to Moira.  
      “Common sense prevails,” Moira grins. “A satisfactory outcome at last.”

      As Dr O'Deorain leaves the lab she bypasses you, pauses, then backtracks slightly. “It seem oddly convenient that the signal was disrupted right as Minister Al-Jabiri was about to speak.”  
      It's your turn to not look up from your work. “Must be the equipment. Previous owner was probably hard on it.”  
      “It's brand new.”  
      You stop typing for a moment. “If I got my contributions treated that way, I'd stop going to meetings, too.”  
      “I am more than capable of defending myself, Administrator.”  
      “I am very well aware of that fact, Minister.”  
      “I'll be in Central this afternoon to see to this little task. Since it was due to your fine efforts the least you can do is join me. Once I'm done with my part it will be yours, anyway, if you don't want your goodwill spent in vain.”  
      You wince.  
      “However, I am not...incapable of recognizing a favor when granted,” you could almost swear there was a hint of softness. “But from here on out do not heedlessly place yourself in danger on my behalf. I have no reputation left to spare, unlike you.”

      You afternoon is no better. Her mood is vile. You only enter her office when absolutely necessary, and give her the uploaded tablet that contains your work so far. As Moira sulks over the distribution schedule, she fishes for a box of tea in her top drawer, shakes it, and tosses it onto the desk, disgruntled. Empty. She hands back the tablet. “Enough. I'm going back to do something that requires actual thought. I'll return later this evening to approve whatever nonsense you come up with.”  
      Once she leaves you sigh and retrieve the rest of the afternoon's tasks. You pause to pick up the box of tea. It seemed to be of the few indulgences the Minister allowed herself, she drank it often. It isn't local, that much is for certain. Sure enough, a quick digital search brings up a tiny shop in Dublin, family run.  
      You think back to the espresso incident.  
      Dubai is three hours ahead. If you sent it by extreme rush, it would arrive by the end of the day, but there wasn't any way to justify it through the department budget, you'd have to buy it yourself. It'd be over two hundred sterling, the most expensive single box of tea you have ever ordered. You hesitate, but a few moments later you find yourself calling long distance to place an order by courier for a postal drop off.  
An hour before your shift ends, Moira finally returns. After she settles in, you follow and silently set a cup of tea next to her, plus the very new box that arrived only a few minutes before. This time, it's visible surprise, as she suspiciously examines the cup.  
      “You've had a hard enough day as it is,” you assure her.  
       She finally takes a small, cautious sip. “Is this your way of signaling a truce?” Moira asks.  
      “That depends. Are you still hell bent on getting me fired?”  
      “You're much cleverer than you let on,” it was the closest you've got to a compliment. “Your sabotages have been inventive and well executed, if pedestrian in their effect.”  
       You sidestep the slight. “Program's finished, by the way. Won't require you to do a single thing, save the occasional signature.”  
      “Convenient.”  
      “Imagine what I could do when I'm not being actively worked against.” You bite back the rest. There had been enough fighting.  
      “It seems we have both made miscalculations about the other.”  
      “Do you have further need of me?”  
      “No, dismissed.”  
      Before you exit the door, you pause. “You know, pig headed as you are, to be honest, I admire you. What you've accomplished.” You leave it at that. “Goodnight Minister.”

      You return early the next morning to find a small package waiting on your desk at the lab. It too, looked to be a similar type of rush, a step below what you had done yesterday. When you slice open the box to reveal a small jewelry box inside, you almost drop it, and inhale sharply when you read the packing slip. They were a vintage pair of runway level, haute couture earrings, precious stone set. The earrings listed were over two thousand dollars!  
      You had placed them on a wishlist as a pure joke. Hands trembling, you put in the earrings, and take a moment to admire yourself in your purse mirror. Who would send this? Could she-  
      “You seem to have received something.”  
       You look up to be greeted by the usual withering countenance from your boss. No, of course not. “Never thought I'd hold a pair, much less own one. Had to check to make sure it wasn't a mistake.”  
      “They do look good on you,” she agrees. “It seemed the most appropriate out of the choices listed for the occasion. However, do refrain from wasting too much time on your vanity this morning, will you?”  
      As Moira leaves, you sit there stunned. When you finally recover and start up the calendar for the day, she's agreed to attend a third of her weekly staff meetings.  
      A record.

      The Hassoun was very out of the way of home, but worth it, and would be vacant at this time of night. You've little time or energy for anything else and the nightlife here didn't appeal right now. As you decompress while walking under the vast canopy of plants, some difficult to grow even under their ideal climate, you are caught off guard by a rush of chill and pull your jacket tighter, the heat of the sands long evaporated off by the cool night air. You pause in front of an arrangement of lotus, hydrangea, and a freshly misted bed of water mint to take in the scent, when you realize you have unwelcome company.  
      There was Moira, a few yards away. Instead of her stark lab whites and daily black, she was dressed casual in slate grey and desaturated blues, with a soft, slightly long fawn hued coat, collar high, not one you'd seen on her before. She seems intently staring at something above the ringed illuminated palms, but you realize it's more she's lost in thought. Last thing you want to do is deal with her right now but your curiosity gets the better of you. What is she doing here?  
      “She does leave her lab,” you murmur in greeting.  
      Spell broken, she nods. “A surprise as well, Administrator. I had no idea you were fond of the gardens, also.”  
      “Didn't take you for the type for near midnight strolls. What brings you out this far?”  
      “A need for air. There's a stubborn bit in my recent work that hasn't yielded for weeks,” she says the last through gritted teeth. “I've curtailed every waking moment, and still it eludes. The hope was unfamiliar surroundings would encourage an insight.”  
      “When problem solving, prefrontal cortex gets tied up in the task at hand and ceases to come up with new solutions, as it's unable to access subconscious memory.” You give a wry smile. “Basically, have you tried leaving it alone?”  
     “A predominantly psychological solution. Not a surprise coming from someone of your background.”  
      “And usually disparaged by a practitioner of the harder sciences. I'm well aware of the rivalry.”  
      “It's worth an attempt,” Moira sighs and reluctantly concedes. “Do you have any suggestions?”  
      “You could try talking to someone.”  
       “Are you volunteering?”  
       “Why not? Kinda curious about the woman who lives to make me miserable.” If you were going to do this, it was going to be fun for you, or else. “Any questions with nothing off limits. Only one rule; no work.”  
       “I'm already regretting this.” Moira grumbles. “Is it going to be icebreaker questions, then? Asking what my favorite color is?”  
       “No,” you think for a moment, something that evokes a memory, pleasant. “Music, what speaks to you?”  
Moira is silent for a long while. At first it seems she isn't going to play along, then, “Vintage Industrial Electronica.”  
        You blink. _Well now._  
       “Introduced to it during my time at University, would play it during studies. There's was one band, ancient, their motto was “Victory Not Vengeance”. A bit dramatic, dark, existential, but still so very filled with hope and wonder.” And then, the rarest of sights, she relaxes, her mouth turned up ever so slightly, warmed at the thought. “It made many a long night as a research assistant much more palatable.”  
       “Not the party type, I take it.”  
       “A disconnect with the taste of my peers. My height and lack of adherence to traditional feminine markers deemed me unappealing, especially to men. “Intimidating” was the common description.”  
       “To men, maybe,” you murmur. She wasn't that unattractive. “I'm sorry, unless you're into that.”  
       “No offense taken. Now, one of my own. What brought you here, Administrator?”  
       “Meaning. Went into the Diplomat program as a challenge from my professor, still had some tattered ideals on mending differences through communication. First assignment out of college was for a popular candidate. Environmentalist. Peacemaker. Charming. Saw him the the next night at a donation dinner with a well known arms dealer. Not the same after that. I wanted to be part of something greater than just PR cleanup, to do something that would be truly useful. Took a full six months just to go through the application process. When it finally came up my girlfriend at the time gave me an ultimatum, either turn down Oasis and stay, or else she was gone. Packed my bags that night.”  
       “Ridiculous,” a dismissive snort. “As if your destiny were hers to command. Such entanglements bring nothing but heartache.”  
       “Harsh.”  
       “Less complications. My last partner was in college.” The mask slid back up. “For romance to be so highly lauded the experience itself was disappointing. Nothing about it furthered my interest.”  
       “So you're not “that way” for anyone.”  
       “That's a rather personal question,” Moira has the barest hint of amusement. “Are you flirting with me, Administrator?”  
       “Simply curious, Minister. Not into abuse. I respect myself too much.”  
       “You've confused natural inclination for intent. Celibate by choice, not orientation. However, I am not completely without desire. I had, as many do at that age, experimented with both sexes. But I found over time my tastes fell solidly on the side of the female form. I have not engaged in that indulgence since.”  
        No friends, no family, endless days in a darkened lab, purposefully cut off from any human warmth. “Aren't you ever lonely?”  
       “I have made peace with the demands of my path a long time ago. “”We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking to the stars”.”  
      “Wilde, a fellow countryman.”  
      “Separated by time, perhaps, and little else. Make no mistake, I am more than aware of my flawed humanity, I am part of that gutter as much as anyone, but I've chosen to reach up. Have you ever truly wondered about the world around you?” Moira gestures at the sweep of the garden. “A billion chemical interactions, sustained by the breakdown of infrared, visible and ultraviolet light, all orchestrate together to bring forth a plant that is but one part of a living manifestation, on this mass of partially cooled iron and nickel, constrained by physics. How can anyone not be in awe by the vast mysteries that are so prominently right in front of them? We understand but mere shadows of the brilliance of existence. My time on this earth is but a fraction to even possess a sliver of it, and grows ever shorter.” She whispers, a supplicant, humble and willing before something far greater. “All I can do is grasp what I can.”  
       Like an image snapped into focus, for once you finally, truly see her, all that made her what she is.  
       The dreamer cursed to see the dawn.  
       But it was also a self imposed exile, from those who could not understand, or would not, carrying a wound so deep and buried as to deny it exists. Something within your chest constricts and turn over, and the bottom drop out into nothing. “”For what is evil, but good tortured by it's own hunger and thirst,”” you say quietly.  
      “Gibran, popular in these parts.”  
      “A contemporary of Wilde, if my dates are right.” Your heart aches for her. “Moira, human beings are social creatures, we aren't meant to be so alone. You've discarded half of what existence has to offer, made assumptions with an incomplete and flawed data set, how can you be so certain you've not made a mistake from a forced choice?” You were on the verge of pleading. “You've been so focused on trying to grasp those same stars, but there are some good things down here, on this earth, too.”  
      Moira begins to retort, then nothing.  
      You've overstepped. “It's late. I hope this conversation has been of some use to you, at least.”  
     “You have indeed given me much to think about,” Moira replied, “though not in the way you may have intended.”  
     “Goodnight, Minister.”  
     “ _Oidhche_ _mhath_ , Administrator.”

      Mid-morning the next day you hear an unfamiliar noise from Moira's workroom. At first, it sounds like a machine powered up and down, then repeats, a slow, unsteady electronic heartbeat. The faint, watercolor thin strains of a violin begin to interlace with it, then grew deeper and rich into the draw of a cello. On your phone you tap record to locate the source. Within a few seconds it returns a match.  
      VNV Nation. Firstlight.

     “Lab 3 over budget by fifteen percent. Asking for an increase.”  
     “Approved.”  
     “Siren Project has results estimated at sixty-seven percent efficacy. Asking for an extension.”  
     “Approved. How many more of these blasted things are there?”  
     “Five more.” You tap another box on your tablet. “It's either this or the old way.”  
     “Continue.” Moira strips off a pair of disposable vinyl gloves and tossed them in the bin. “At least this way is a bit more aesthetically pleasant.” She glances behind you. “Very much so. New skirt?”  
      Your cheeks grow warm. “You play too much.”  
     “And do you really object, Administrator?”  
     “From a butch disaster like you? Please.” You were not going to give her the satisfaction. “I'm assuming same as yesterday, chicken breast, half salad, one tablespoon of dressing.”  
     “Just the salad.”  
     “Chicken. You didn't eat this morning.”  
      Exasperation. “Alright. Off with you if you're going to be that way.”  
Once you are safely out of the lab, you collapse against the wall and clutch the tablet to your chest, trying to steady your pounding heart.  
      Near miss.  
      It had been a month since the Hassoun. The first time she flirted with you as a tease came as a shock, one you quickly recovered from and volleyed back, with sarcasm to spare. Somehow, the gardens marked an invisible bridge you'd crossed together. But you had to remind yourself, sometimes more forcefully as the weeks went along, that you were a pleasant distraction at best, and idle banter at worst. You were here to work, to advance your career, and very much like Moira you did not want any kind of entanglements getting in the way. And for awhile you were able to convince yourself that this was all it was.  
     Until one day, it wasn't.

     She's late.  
     Immediately something is very wrong. Moira's stride is slower, and when she removes her sunglasses, you're taken aback by the dark circles under her eyes. Already normally pale, she was ghostly white, the blue in her veins mottled dark. You find out she's been exposed to a highly potent offshoot of a rotavirus. One that bordered on dangerous.  
    “Sprayed directly into the face.” Moira growls. “The last mistake that assistant will ever make. Don't,” she starts when you reflexively scoot away from her. “Spread only through direct ingesting of bodily fluids. You're safe.”  
    “Why are you even here? You should be at the hospital! A shot of antiviral and you should be fine!”  
    “Completion of the experiment, even if I have become an unwitting subject to it. Otherwise the work becomes a waste.” Moira pauses for a moment, swallows, and steadies herself. She looked like she was about to be sick. “Regardless, sitting around accomplishes nothing. At least I can be useful. Now, if you're done fussing over me, I'm not to be disturbed under any conditions. Let me be miserable in peace.”  
     You watch as she slinks into the lab and the doors close behind her. As ordered, you start the long morning of taking care of what you could, and rescheduling what you could not. A half hour later, you hear the faint, unmistakable splatter of retching hitting a steel trash can, followed by a curse. The first of many after.  
     Moira was a doctor in her own right. A simple viral exposure, no matter how severe, was more than enough for her to handle. But the idea of her ill still bothered you, no matter how much you tried to bat it from your mind, and each retch made you wince.  
     It's long past lunch before you extricate yourself from your computer. Seeking distraction you leave the building for a short walk. Passing by a small international market, you enter to browse. It's still disorienting to see products from home marketed as exotic, but one bottle stands out; a re-hydration solution that your mother bought when you had the flu. It was meant for children but adults drank it as well. You pass by the bottle a few times until you take it off the shelf. If anything, you hoped it would comfort her the way it had you.  
     By late afternoon your concern grows. Moira would have had at least one request by now. You chime the door, hesitant, willing to take the argument. Nothing. You try again, then a third time. You know she hasn't left. Concern borders into fear. Had she passed out? You hold up your passcard and activate the emergency override code on the door.  
     The room had been rearranged slightly, with a single patient exam chair set up in the back. Moira was asleep, an IV in her arm, attached to a few bags of saline. The air reeked of spoiled ginkgo leaves, and you recognize it's stomach acid. Display shows even dips of green and yellow. Stable from what little you knew. Foolish. Of course she's fine. Since you already came in, you at least retrieve the bottle of oral solution and gently place it on the cart next to her. As you do, she curls up and shivers slightly.  
     You can't leave her like this.  
     An unused set of patient blankets lay in the back drawer. You pull apart the seal, puncture the warming pack on the edge, and gently drape them over Moira. She uncurls slightly and settles deeper into the exam chair. You reach out to brush a lock of hair out of her face.  
     You freeze. This is your boss.  
     By the time you go back to your desk you're shaking. Inappropriate. You could have been caught, she could have woke up. Unsettled, you try to pick up back where you were, but in the end you stare at the screen.  
     Not long after Moira wakes up to leave. She's actually going home on time for once. As she gives you your final, curt instructions for the night, she adds “Commercial re-hydration solutions are no match for their prescription equivalents. Your concern is noted, however, it is an unnecessary gesture. As was being tucked in like a small child.”  
     You flush red for a moment. “Noted, Minister.”  
     She tells you to do some minor cleanup in the lab, a few stray papers transcribed, some handwritten notes. Once she leaves, you go to gather things and see the blankets neatly folded on the edge.  
     The bottle of oral hydrate was empty.  
     You can't deny it any longer. But Moira has made it very clear that science is her only love. She will never look at you the way you do her.  
And that is when you decide it's time to leave.

     It was easy enough to set up. You went back to Central and made up a story about finally having it, wanting to give it a good try, and so forth. The secretary was disappointed, but sympathetic, and thanked you for your service.  
     You had lasted six months.  
     You tell Moira nothing, no change in your behavior, as to not tip her off. On the last day, you quietly hit send on your resignation letter, and overnight bag in tow, head on out to the helipad. You were given a transfer to Geology as promised, and to prevent any conflict, would be put on a flight immediately, assigned off site for the rest of the year.  
    Enough time, you hoped, for the bruise in your heart to fade.  
    The sight of the transport blurs through your tears, the roar and gust of the rotors blasting you back. Faintly you hear your name being called. You keep going, and hear it again, this time much louder. Violently you're swung around by the arm.  
    It's Moira.  
   “You're up and leaving, why?” She shakes you slightly. “I demand an answer!”  
    You've never seen her this emotional in such a public setting. “You were right, I'm not fit to be here,” you lie. “You need to find someone else.”  
   “What are you on about? You know me. Know how I work.” She falters, searching. “Whose going to make the afternoon tea?”  
    Your heart sinks. You were right to go. Moira was mentioning your usefulness and nothing more. “Someone else can learn how to make tea.”  
   “I don't want theirs. I want yours.”  
   “Why?”  
   “Because you're mine!” she gasps. Confusion at her own outburst. And something you'd never seen from her before, fear. Slowly it dawns on you. There's no way-  
   “I can't stay here,” you fail at keeping your voice even as you sob. “I want something from you that you won't ever be able to give.”  
   “And what is that?”  
   “You.”  
   “Why are you lying to me? This isn't a jest! Try again!”  
   “I mean it, Moira. It's you. And if I feel this way, I have to leave.”  
   Shocked silence. “Why must everyone attempt to make decisions for me,” she says softly, almost more to herself than you, “when that decision should be mine to make.”  
    You look back at the transport, then to Moira. In five minutes you would need to board if you were going to make your flight. If you do this, if you pursue what you were sure was being offered in front of you, there would be no turning back.  
    You let go of the overnight handle.  
   “You mean this?” Moira asks again, as if trying to confirm it for herself. “You have feelings for me?”  
    You nod.  
   “This isn't something, I assume, that would be correct to discuss here.”  
   “It would require a more appropriate setting.”  
   “Do you have a suggestion?”  
   “Dinner, probably.”  
    You both stand there, pensive, waiting for the other to react.  
   “Then it's decided,” Moira answered finally. She starts to pull you back towards the direction of the office. “Now, come with me. I've given enough of a show out here.”  
   “My transfer-”  
   “I denied it”, Moira said. “I wasn't going to let you go that easily, not without a fight.”

    The secretary frowned. “Are you sure you're alright with this?”  
    Central had called back incessantly after you hadn't made it on the transport. “I'm sure,” you reply to the video call. “The Minister and I had a misunderstanding, that's all. I'm sorry to concern you.”  
    The woman seemed unconvinced. “Do know you have protections as an employee of the Oasis government, no matter who it involves.”  
   “The Administrator is not being kept against her will,” Moira interrupts. “If she wishes to go, she may. You assume much.”  
   “That may be, Minister O'Deorain. I am simply being thorough. Administrator, I will relay your decision to Minister Al-Shahrani, they'll be a little disappointed in losing someone like you.”  
   “Thank you.”  
    The video conference winks out.  
    Moira touches the spot where she grabbed you and rubs it slightly. “Are you sure of this?”  
    You put your hand over hers and give a slight smile. “I've put up with you this long, haven't I?” You caress her cheek, and she leans into your touch like a cat, her eyes close in content. You pull her close, and as she leans in, her lips press casually against your forehead as she cautiously returns your embrace.  
   “Are you sure this is the right environment for such behavior?” she asks.  
   “Not really,” you whisper. “But it'll do for the moment.” You lean up to kiss her just as Moira comes down to meet you halfway. She brushes her lips against yours feather light, then slightly parts to deepen it, and pulls you tighter to her.  
   There would be pain, you think, you were sure of it, but that would be dealt with in time. All that mattered right now was this moment, and for now, that would be enough.


End file.
